www.millercoors.com(Comment Section) (BBP) Friday, May 24, 2019 @ 11:13 am Indianapolis, Indiana

If I were in marketing in your venerable, great establishment, I market and distribute what Miller can coin, “Half and Half,” in the beer world.  Thinking about married couples, couples, roommates that have totally different tastes in beer… one likes light beer the other only likes regular beer; hence, ‘Half light beer and Half Regular beer,’ mixing three Miller high Life with three Miller High Life Light. Call them Duos: 6packs/12packs/24packs. Push for this idea to be sunk into the public mindset by having different slogans:

“Miller High Life is American Made. We have always made great tasting beer and have always been aware of the diverse world who has always  enjoyed and indulged in the, “The Champagne of Beers!”  Cheers!”

This will bring about a buzz back to Miller High Life starting to make a move to the top where Miller rightfully should be. Just a thought.  

By the way I love the beer that you brew, its truly All American.  The taste is America!

Miller High Life always has reminded me of my father ever since his passing  in 1997, it was the only beer he would drink.  All I’ve got!

For Real-For Real! (Spoken Word Enthusiast, Azure Skyye Bleu) Friday, December 06, 2019 @ 12:12 am / "Skip to No End," Downtown, Indianapolis, Indiana 46204

“Oh, yeah I play the lottery but I’ll never win.”  

The fuck!  Kind of sense!  Does that stupid shit make?! So yo ass plays to lose motha fucka? Damn!  Glad yo ass is happy like that…for real!  Cause a muh fucka like me plays and my Black ass believes whole heartily that my numbers are goin ta hit!  Damn straight!  And get shitty when they don’t!  

The fuck! Those numbers mean something to me.  And they will all come togetha in a multi-million-dollar jackpot that will be mine to win, when these obtuse muh fuckahs decide to act right. And agree amicably, it is best for the decision with all parties’ involved to work together to conclude the matter with this simple solution!  But shit!  Theys gonna hit.  Or, I’ll die tryin to make them hit!  

But tell me muh fucka...tell a broke muh fucka like me...how in the hell yo broke ass, all the time havin ass, expect ta have any betta by, that tired ass slave masta mantra, ‘Just work hard’?  I'm over that fuckin shit of a slogan for the poor!  And that is you and my sorry Black ass!  For real-for real! 

Please, That Young Coors Light Son! (Thirty-Six Years Old, Youtuber Pepsi Coked Jackson) The Ghetto Wine Connoisseur, Posted: Monday, July 6, 2020 at 11:59 PM

...In my opinion, an avid wine drinker as is I, red and white, I may let you know...in a beer setting the reason I believe wine drinkers order a light beer is because light beer is the most like a wine, a sparkling wine at that, save for some of the lacing retention given brand of light beer.

Take for instance Coors Light.  The color is spot-on Sparkling wine, a straw color. Nose...bland but with a very little hint of rose.  Taste, their is a kind of slight fruity taste going on, with a slight bitterness at the back end.  Can't quite describe it. Definitely not offensive at all. Dry finish.  Effervescent.  Refreshing.  And the most important aspect with the beer crowd, quite session-able.  You know beer drinkers. Get all out of sorts when they drink too many.

But we wine drinkers are...classy chil'!

You Never See It Coming (Thirty-Nine Years Old, Carlton Cox, D.O.A. at Sidney and Lois Eskenazi Hospital, Road Rage Incident) September 11, 2019 at 2:33 am

I couldn't sleep and decided to go for a drive at 2:15 in the morning.  I got into the car. Drove to the on ramp to I-465 East and had just merged onto the highway, when  another car pulled up along side of me the car traversing on the left of me in the middle lane.  I turned to see who the driver was and all I noticed was a revolver pointing directly at me with a hand attached to the butt.  I turned to look at the road again and started depressing the accelerator...

Fuck You GOT! (Sixty-Six Years Old, Ex-Game Of Thrones Fanatic, Malcolm Merit)) Sunday, April 14, 2019; 8:59 pm

Fuck GOT!  For real!  I know I’m gettin’ all kind of shit from fanatical, GOT'ers.  Advertising anticipation to the end of  GOT…Who said?  Shit not my ass!  Fuck you boo-boo!  Shit, what was that slogan on the movie, The Truman Show, ‘What next?”  Fuck yeah, what next!  That’s the reason I watched the shit weekly when the new episodes would start.  I didn’t watch it because I was anticipating an ending to the shit.  Maybe to some of the characters, no doubt…but the show…fuck you!  “What next?,” was the reason a muh fuckah like me watched the series religiously.  Not…I’ll tell yo monkey ass this, right the fuck now…

“Not for some goddamned mother fucking ending!  Goddamnit!”

The Future End

...Once you look at this shit in its totality you start to be fascinated by the ruse.  Brilliant!  And damnit!  Who wrote this genius script?!  I mean no role or thing has varied from the foretold ending!  Linear!  All aboard!  And you know your God damned lines and actions!  Roll'em!...

Biters Will Always Bite (Forty-Five Years Old, Nathan School, Spreaker Podcast Host) Thursday,June 6, 2019 @ 12:12 pm

I remember the bullshit as clear as day.  There was this product being advertised called, “Certain,” sanitary bath tissue.  Now Mommy, yes I still call my Mother Mommy though I am forty-five years old.  Getting back to the subject, “Certain,” had a disinfectant lotion or some kind of bull shit within the toilet paper itself.  Mommy bought it once or twice and I remember using it, it was viscous. Didn't feel like the conditioned corporate, wipe clean dry. Felt like it was putting something on, instead of taking shit off. It was supposed to clean yo  just shittin ass after a proper mother fucker like yo ass is, drops it like it’s hot!  

Now, check this out.  People didn’t care for the shit wipes back in the day; ‘Certain’ advertised is a more sanitary way of, “Wiping Your Bum,” or some kind of sorry corporate advertising bullshit.  Anyway.

A few of the reasons people didn't care for the product was: “It didn’t feel like it was cleaning me,” “Kind of slippery.  Doesn’t feel right,” “Feels nasty,’…

Now, Cottonelle  plagiarizing the  fuck out of the same concept in 2019.  Y’all some biters!  For real!  And you can bet your bottom dollar in this day, it will be all the rage!  Mother fuckers!

Indianapolis, Indiana, Pastor, Dr. Y.S. Grand (Church Of The Real Deal Apolstolics) Tuesday, December 24, 2019 @ 6:33 pm.

"If one professes to believe in Our Father, one must, not shall, disavow that sordid, '...the world is round.' So-called truth.  The Bible clearly states that we live in a firmament. We live on a level, a plane, flat..." Pastor Grand preached.

And what was just a second before a good riled up plenty of pious parishioners present, with ubiquitous 'Amen,' and 'Thank you Jesus,' on this perfect slightly snowy Christmas Eve sermon, had gone totally silent...

Pauvre! Pauvre! It's Probably Time To Depopulate!

Once you look back at all of the things that have transpired throughout this human history you just have to laugh or, if not at the very least, smile.  They got US.

Good one motha fucka ya played a fuckin playa!  Whatoutchairnaw!  Big ups!  For real!  But now that I know about yo wicked fuckin ways...what yo runnin out of ideas havin ass gonna do now?  Now, that you know you can't manipulate a motha fucka no mo?

And Her Name is Fernet-Branca (Indianapolis, Indiana Based, Restaurant and Bar Blogger, Kyle Upland) Saturday, September 7, 2019 @ 10:12 pm

All right.  I just have to admit it.  Everybody talkin bout weed is the shit…blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.  I’m not tryin to piss on your, “Green is not mean,” bandwagon.  I’m just stating facts.  Been where you talkin and done that.  But the shit ain’t legal.  So I say, “Fuck it!”  Okay it’s not legal. But liquor is goddamnit!  Oh, yes it is.

Don’t nothin get your ass there better and smoother than, the South Americans know it best as, ‘Branca and Coke.’  Or Fernet Branca neat.  Shit, hidden gem for sho!  But the best way I have found is like you do Jagermeister, you shoot it with a light beer back.  You see all that you are substituting in this case is the cola taste but not the carbonation affect.  The carbonation is still there, just not that caramel-ish Coke taste that it is known for.  But substituting a preference for the taste of beer with the earthy, menthol deep, complexed, one of a kind taste, the nectar of the God’s, Last name: Branca, First name: Fernet!  Who I am sure cheats with to some degree or flat-out is just blatant with the whole affair which will eventually turn to marriage with the two adulterers. She rightfully gots those skills.

Fuck weed.  But cheat with Fernet Branca and Miller High Life Light until you can legally fuck weed again.  And Branca is Bi-Sexual by the way!  Prost!  

"Hey, Pimpin', Let Me Holla Atta Playa For A Minute," Your Own Conscience: Blue Pill: 12/30/1965 - 12/30/2005 / Red Pill: 12/30/2005 - Present

…You take the, “Red Pill or Blue Pill,” scene in the Matrix is an excellent example about what people are still doing…Bullshitting themselves all the fuckin time until you want to wake the fuck up, ain't shit gonna change!  Just chillin and shit.  The fuck.  Naw check this out there playa, you take their blue pill Pimpin, chill with that shit all...boring...life…long.

 

Butcha see here, this is where the problem with yo ass arises, this Red Pill here?  Shit, this right here, will have you trippin yo ass out Playa! This here, was made in our American Streets!  Ameri-can-fuckin-made!  "Land of the Free and home of the Brave!" Get what I’m sayin?  I mean that blue pill shit, you gots that shit on lock!  For real!  But check this out Playa, I won’t lie to you bout this here Red Pill!  This shit here…will blow yo mind!  And you won’t regret that fine, very comely, fiery looking dress, she's adorned, to help assist in a Playa's choice like yours is gonna be. Sorry. I guarantee.  But I ain’t tryin to persuade you either way.  I’m just telling you how it is.  We here…we've been friends for a very long time. It's just now that we've met one another…

Nothing But A Pig On A Spit (Fifty-Three Years Old, T'Old Truth, Conspiracy Theorist) July 4, 2020

Human Resources and Human Resources Departments are nothing but a Psychological Operation successfully being carried out by more than one thinktank: Tavistock Institute; Stanford Research Institute…The Club of Rome, Round Table, Trilateral Commision, The Counsel On Foreign Relations, The International Monetary Fund…We are pigs for slaughter after they get us fat enough to be deliciously edible.

One Time (BBP)

Take the fist to the lips to enlist the insanity of the vanity of the so-called normal humanity beings.  Watching, seeings and beings of such a parched earth.  No rebirth of this turf.  Can’t reseed the Earth.  Once we die…we just die for what it’s worth. 

What Ever (Thirty-Three Years Old, On-Air Personality, Lee Pit, WYSKY, 96.3 FM) March 3,2020

“Thank you for joining me tonight.  I am…What Ever.  Hackneyed maybe.  But I am what I am.  With you into the wee hours of the morning.  And wherever whatever can take you.  Just ask.  And I’ll take you there.  And maybe you don’t even have to ask.  I’ll just take your ass What Ever anyway. Whatchairnaw!

Male.  Female.  Child.  Enfant…Dog.  Cat…Any animal.  Just watch how that living entity reacts to music…and that will tell you everything you need to understand about this here life, and that particular living entity.  C’est tout!  Without any further delay.  Open the door.  Get in.  Come ohn naw.  Get in! 

There you go.  You comfortable and shit?  Excellent.  Now, let’s take this bonding ride.

Chill with this…” (Spoon/Nobody Gets Me But You).”

A Rhetorical Conversation

He was working, in the dairy department, putting up not dairy, but refrigerated juices.  Counting aloud to see how many of the various juices he would need to fill the various holes, with the juices ,that were in abundance this Saturday night.  Saturdays were always the worst.  Then he heard:

"Are you speaking to me," he turned to see that it was a co-worker who's name was Candace.

"No, I'm sorry.  I was talking to myself.  I do that sometime," he said.

"Oh, okay," she said and walked away.

He turned and began evaluating the inventory again.

"No, ain't nobody talkin to yo dumbass. You know the bitch was adopted right," he turned to see that now it was a co-worker named, Chona, 'No not China.  But China with an 'O,' 'speaking to him, "... by some white folks that didn't teach her ass any bettah.  Bitch thinks she white and shit. Ain't that some shit. You see that bitch.  Blacker than you and me put togethah talkin crazy shit like that. I don't have time for some fucked up bullshit like that.  Unh-unh.  Fuck that.  All our ancestors went through and yo dumbass gonna deny your obvious heritage.  Dumb bitch.  And we won't even talk about her hair.  You see that shit.  Her shit nappier than the hair in the crack of a farmer's ass.  Yea-ah," Chona said, put her earbuds in her ears and walked away also.

Now That's A Proper Fag! (65 Years Old, Graham Smith) November 24, 2019

He coughed.  And that cough began another round of hacking; pulling up phlegm; spitting yellowish-brown matter; coughing some more; hacking some more; this time pulling up phlegm with a tinge of pink with the yellowish-brown matter.

Coughing one more time with a, "Owee that was propah!" he said aloud to no one but himself.  Everything settling in it's various nooks and crannies in the membranes of his lungs.  Excellent, he thought to himself.  Without thinking he reached for them, Camel Non-Filters.  Shook one of the fags out. Tapped one end of the cigarette up against the right hand thumb several times.  Put the same end that was striking against his thumbnail in between his lips.  Took out the square box of wooden matches that were in his left pant pocket prior to retrieval.  Opened the box of matches and took out one of the short wooden sticks with a red tip at one end.  Closed the box of matches.  And finally struck the red tipped end of the match against the one of two rough sided panels.  Put the match against the now pursed end of the ciggy.  Inhaled wickedly while lighting.  Shook the wooden match fire out by a flick of his left wrist.  Put the extinguished match in the square transparent bluish tinged ashtray. Took the fag out from his lips slightly pinched between his left index and middle finger.  Finally exhaled.  "Ahhhhh!  Naw that's a propah fag!  The Yanks did ye right 'ere," He said again aloud to no one but himself.  He looked at the ciggy and smiled.  "Time to make some tea..."

Backslide Never More (Spoken Word Enthusiast, Azure Skyye Bleu) December 4, 2019

Flying high never low.  Below the tow.  Drowning in the spinning, sinning, declining Eden.  Hunger no more the famine is real.  Stealing is just trying to still time, you survive or die.  But I don’t have to bug you with these wonderful little anecdotes.  We’ve long since left the boats.  Still with totes, unnecessary baggage. Though armed with biblical tutelage.  Sweet Jesus will see through US; it’s Heaven or bust.  But lust takes over to the modern-day straight-bisexual Casanova.  We must, not shall, right the ship.  Flip the script.

And all sail away…better yet… fly away…whatever is clever…forever.

A Higher Solution (Spoken Word Enthusiast, Azure Skyye Bleu) December 3, 2019

Don’t you love me; dutifully; romantically; lustful for me?  The fact remains to sustain in the pouring rain to fain a living, never giving, believing the lie that is making everyone sigh.  Cry.  Even passing laws to get high.  Sprout the doubt.  And the lies will come about.  Pout to the droughts coming when the fire desires and aspires to cast a dire down spiral going viral violently, vehemently…additionally professed from the luciferian obsessed.  I don’t belong amongst the strong or the violently bound to astound, turn around and reverberate the sound coming around.  Pound of steel is real, kill the will to keep working the twerking of the underbelly of soft and hard telly…vision as a provision to keep everyone in submission.  

A belly full of intestines intertwine.  A fine swine of such piteous repute.  Gold standard refute.  Gone is our loot to boot.  It suits.  But it sure ain’t cute. 

Liquid Life (Continued)

…A horn blew. He looked down and witnessed, like so many times in the past, a pedestrian almost getting hit by passing traffic; whose drivers are less than attentive, in downtown Indianapolis no less.  But he just shook his head, said to himself, “Big City, Little City is all the same family because they have the same last name.”  He smiled to himself raised the glass, “Prost.” Took a sip.  He was there.  Medicated.  But not overly so.  Copacetic.  A memory popped into his mind:  Jones.  Private Jones.  He and…what was the muh fuckahs first name?  Shit we were boys he thought but he couldn’t remember the first name to save his life.  Maybe tomorrow or another day, recall was down at this point, he ensconced in his medical cocktail.  Watchoutchairnaw!  He and Jones would be hittin the jay in the back of the latrines; If the weed was fire, Jones would smile at him while exhaling, Jones' head nodding up and down, while passing him the jay, with the word slowly coming out of Jones' mouth during all of this was,” Cooooopaaaaceeetic!”  He became a fan of the word after he started hanging out with Jones.  He thought for some reason copacetic was an ill word and to this very day he used the word frequently.

He continued to the kitchen. Ol’ Jones, he thought again and shook his head a little and smiled at the memory. Got to the marble kitchen island he had placed his medication on. Made minor adjustments to the dosage; this time gin 50ml, D/C vermouth for at least four hours; this dosage, every forty-five minutes or so would keep away the vampires.  Shit he started thinking, fuck the garlic, give me a pint and aftah which that motha fuckah can suck my carotid all they wants, I don’t feel a damn thang!  Numb the fuck to my toes! And before I exanguinate and turn cold, can a brotha get a refill?

 

Sipped his gin.  Smiled once again.  Did a little jig.  Found his chair.  Put his drink down.  Take out smoke. Zippo. Clink. Fire it up. Zippo. Clink.  Inhale mightily.  Sit down.  Now exhale.  Good.  Pick up drink.  Sip.  Keep in hand.  Steady with the armrest.  Pull on cigarette.  Exhale.  Sip on drink… Daily PRN THRUT… Signed: Chauncey Hopson, FU-INOU-Dr. Vet...  (to be continued)    

Take Me With You (BBP)

“You’re our meal ticket,” he said, while basking in the afterglow of he making love with his wife.  A perfect evening with windows wide open.  A soft gentle constant breeze flowing over their naked bodies. That was the advantage of having a second floor, there was a certain since of privacy and safety when the windows were open at night.    He guessed that yeah, a person could climb up to the second floor some kind of way if they really wanted to rob, rape…get off that mindset, he had to say to himself.  This was a one of kind memory happening now just speak and quit thinking so much. 

“What do you mean.  I only make a little over ten thousand dollars more than you.  I would hardly be seen as a meal ticket for us both,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t mean monetarily even though you make a nice nut.  I mean emotionally.  The reason I’m here,” he said softly, warmly.

“Oh, you,” is all she said then fell silent and looked up past the ceiling into the heavens where she knew his eyes were focused upon also.  She knew like these times to just listen.  He could take you places, that is just one of the many reasons she married this man of now some eight years now.  So she said softly, just moving her lips,”…so take me.”  And he began:

“I remember when I first saw you which you corrected were chartreuse, '...Not yellowish or in your vernacular, greenish but chartreuse my good man,' …” (to be continued)